


The Adventure Of The Noble Bachelor (1887)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [75]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Caring Sherlock, Destiel - Freeform, Germany, Impersonation, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Murder
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-13
Updated: 2017-05-13
Packaged: 2018-10-31 07:56:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10895031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: Watson's relationship with Sherlock changes forever, as the detective once again shows that he has a great heart to match his great mind. And there is a death concerning - Death!





	The Adventure Of The Noble Bachelor (1887)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [majestic_duck (majesticduxk)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/majesticduxk/gifts).



I do not know why, but for some reason I took a distinct dislike to Amsterdam. It was a pleasant enough city, I supposed; perhaps it was the general flatness of the Netherlands that made me uneasy, as had happened back in the case on the Isle of Uffa ('Hereward's Dagger'). My friend, of course, sensed it immediately, and suggested that we leave the next day, though to where he would not say. No matter how much I pouted!

Of course, I could not catch a break. I came down to breakfast on the morning of our departure to find someone with Sherlock at the table. His brother Lucius.

I uttered something decidedly Anglo-Saxon before pasting a fake smile on my face and joining them. The other Holmes greeted me briefly before shaking hands with his brother and hurrying away. I stared after him, feeling uneasy.

“Luke is concerned about me”, Sherlock said, in between stuffing himself with his and half of my bacon. It was just like being back home.

“I suppose that he wants you back in England”, I said sourly. “Well, it was a good run whilst it lasted.”

He was looking at me as if I were mad. I stared back at him, confused.

“What?” I asked, hoping that it did not involve my remaining two rashers of bacon.

“I made it quite clear that I was on holiday”, Sherlock said firmly. “Luke merely wanted to check up on me for Mother, who is apparently panicking that so many of her sons are out of England at one and the same time.”

I swallowed, feeling guilty at having so wrongly judged him.

“I shall have to return soon, though”, I said. “The surgery did not give me that long away from my trying patients, and surely the fuss over that dreadful woman has died down by......”

Even I, possibly the worst detective in the world, could have spotted the sudden awkward silence. I stared curiously at my friend.

“That was the other thing”, he said, looking at me almost nervously. “I may have arranged to borrow you from them for a little longer. I thought that a change would do us both good.”

Grown men did not cry. And the maids here really should dust a little more thoroughly in an eating area. I blew my nose and thanked him with the rest of my bacon, and he gave me that gummy smile of his. 

My plate may have been half-empty, but who needed bacon when I had Sherlock?

+~+~+

I stared incredulously at the station name-board, until my friend nudged me to move away from the train before it started off again. 

“You.... brought me here?” I asked incredulously. I was going to get all emotional again, and I hated that. My friend smiled.

“You said more than once how much you wanted to come here”, he said. “And I thought, why not? We have four days in the Grand Hotel, plenty of time to visit the spa and do some sight-seeing.”

We had left the Netherlands and journeyed back into the German Empire, visiting the ancient cathedral in Cologne and, to my joy, the cathedral at Worms, made famous by Martin Luther. And now here, the town I had always wanted to visit but could never, ever have afforded to! My wonderful friend must have been keeping a secret record of all the places I had ever expressed a wish to see, which was why we were now close to the French border in the delightful spa town of Baden-Baden. In all honesty I could have kissed him!

+~+~+

Of course, when good things did happen to me, I just knew that Fate had something bad in store ready and waiting, to balance the books. But even I had not anticipated as to just how fast that balancing would happen. We were checking into the hotel – the main English-speaking one in the town, Sherlock had assured me – when the concierge looked at our names in the register with something approaching awe. She was an elderly lady, her grey hair curled tightly into a bun, but she looked as if all her Christmases had come at once.

“Excuse me, sir”, she said to Sherlock, “but if that is Doctor Watson, are you 'the' Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”

I immediately sensed trouble, but my friend only smiled.

“It is a rare name”, he said, “and if you mean 'am I the Mr. Sherlock Holmes who is also a consulting detective', then yes I am.”

“Could you please wait here just a moment?” she said, almost running into a back room before either of us could answer.

“You seem to have already acquired a fan club”, I observed. He smiled back at me.

“Hopefully nothing that will disturb our holiday”, he said. 

That hope was not to be realized.

+~+~+

The concierge returned, and asked us if we could spare a few minutes to talk with the hotel manager, to which we agreed. Mr. Ivan Coburg was, I thought, rather young for such a position; a tall, reedy fellow in his early thirties, he had thinning blond hair through which he kept nervously running his hand. He bade us both to take a seat.

“I am sorry for troubling you gentlemen on what must be a holiday”, he said apologetically, “but your arrival here is providential. The day before yesterday one of our guests died in somewhat mysterious circumstances, and the local police are being very heavy-handed about the whole thing. I do not like to ask, but....”

“Tell us about it”, Sherlock prompted.

The manager seemed to relax a little at the invitation. 

“The dead man is Mr. Nigel Horton, valet to Lord De'Ath, who is staying here”, he said. “It is all really rather bizarre; it appears that he committed suicide, but..... well, our resident doctor thought it a little strange.”

(Because so many people have subsequently asked, I shall add at this point that despite the strange name, this particular noble family's ancestors had no connection to death itself. The earliest recorded family member was a steward at the time of the Domesday Book in 1086, one Edmund Dethe, whose name came from an old word for the tinder or kindling collected to start fires.)

“Why?” I asked. 

“I am sorry”, he said, twisting his hands nervously. “I was only appointed last month when the previous manager was found to be defrauding the company, and several people said that I was not experienced enough. A junior manager still here expected to get the appointment, and he was.... well, unhappy at the company's decision. He has not been helpful over this whole matter. I ran a small hotel on the Swiss border beforehand, you see, and this is a big step up for me – and now I have a death on my hands.”

He took a deep breath and pulled himself together. I noted that the whisky decanter on the side-table was half-empty.

“Gereint, Lord De'Ath, and his valet Horton arrived here two days ago”, he said. “If you were to take an interest in the case, Mr. Holmes, I am sure that His Lordship would be willing to speak with you. The experience has come as a shock to him as well, of course. And the local police have insisted that he should not leave until they have finished all their inquiries, so he would surely welcome a speedy resolution.”

“Of course”, Sherlock said. “Pray continue.”

“Lord De'Ath took the Royal Suite, our best one, and decided to use the hotel's private pool that same night”, the manager went on. “Naturally his valet accompanied him. They had checked in at just after seven that evening.....”

“Did you have warning of their arrival?” Sherlock interrupted.

“Yes. A telegram sent the day before, from Basel.”

I knew instinctively that Sherlock found that fact of note, although why the lord came from Switzerland as opposed from France or Germany, I had no idea.

“I see", Sherlock said. "Pray continue.”

“They entered the pool room at just before eight”, the manager continued. “We usually close it at half-past, but we try to be flexible for our guests. There was one man, Paolo, on duty, but he did not speak to either of them. He was 'on call' if they needed anything, which apparently they did not; the valet said that his master wished to read quietly and perhaps swim later. Paolo remained in his room until a quarter to ten, when he was alerted by Lord De'Ath knocking frantically at his door, saying that his valet had suddenly collapsed whilst walking along the edge of the pool and had fallen in. He had tried to get him out, but the man was too heavy for him to lift. Paolo did help him drag the man out, but he had apparently drowned.”

“Apparently?” I asked, wondering just how one 'apparently' drowned. The manager nodded.

“Our doctor did a quick check at the time, and found a small puncture wound in the arm”, he said. “Lord De'Ath, very reluctantly I might say, admitted that he had recently begun to entertain suspicions that his valet had fallen prey to the evil opium, and several additional marks found on the body seemed to back this up.”

Sherlock nodded, and looked expectantly at the manager.

“I think that is all, sir”, the man said. “Do you think that you could take an interest in the case?”

“Only if you tell me everything, Mr. Coburg”, Sherlock said, much to my surprise.

“But sir....”

“No, you have left something out.”

“I assure you, I have not.”

“What else did the doctor say?” Sherlock pressed.

The manager looked confused for a moment, then his face cleared.

“Oh, that”, he said dismissively. “But that was nothing.”

“He commented on the stiffness of the limbs, did he not?”

The manager stared at Sherlock in amazement.

“How.... how on earth could you know that?” he almost shrieked.

“It is my business to know things, sir”, Sherlock said crisply. “Indeed, I am fairly sure that I already know exactly how this death occurred. I will however need to do a few things before I can be absolutely certain. For any subsequent court case, you understand.”

The manager was looking at him like he was the Second Coming.

“Name them!” he said.

“I need to dispatch a telegram to my policeman friend of mine in London”, Sherlock said. “And after the doctor and I see the body of the dead man and Watson examines him, I think it only fair that I have a talk with a certain guest currently occupying your Royal Suite.”

+~+~+

The dead man had been about fifty years of age at his demise, and in good physical condition for a man of his age. The local doctor had been right about the number of pinpricks on his arm, although he seemed to have also applied some sort of unguent in an attempt to hide them, and I estimated that his use of the evil drug must have started only recently. 

_(This seems a timely place to make an aside to scotch the malicious rumours, doubtless started by some of Sherlock's enemies, that he himself partook of the dreaded opium. This is arrant nonsense; as a doctor I would have _immediately_ spotted any symptoms and equally immediately treated him for them. I can only assume that, amongst the many people upon whom my friend wrought justice, one – or a relation of one – had a journalistic connection, for this evil rumour appeared more than once in the newspapers, until Lady Rebecca Holmes found out about it and 'persuaded' the man to stop. Her 'persuasion' was as effective as always; the cruel stories stopped and did not resurface.)_

“Although the unguent seems odd”, I remarked as I finished up.

“How so?” Sherlock asked.

“Well, I would not have thought that a valet would normally go about bare-sleeved”, I said. “His uniform would surely cover them. Unless he was afraid that other servants back in England might see them when he was changing, but that would not be an issue with him and his master travelling alone.”

“An interesting point”, Sherlock said, and I just knew that there was something to what I had said. Though what it was eluded me, as ever. 

“He was very well-kempt”, I observed. 

“Many people judge the nobility on how their servants are turned out”, Sherlock said. “A poorly-presented servant usually means a bad master. Is there anything else?”

I was about to say no when I spotted it. I had thought it to be just a birthmark, but a second look convinced me otherwise. It was a tattoo transfer, and quite recently applied judging from the look of it. 

“A six or a nine”, I said. “Odd. It is one of those ones that wears off quickly, which would imply that it was done very recently. Possibly even after death, though I cannot see why anyone would do that.”

Sherlock shook his head.

“The sign of infinity”, he said, “an eight on its side. Used by some criminal groups to mark either members or victims. This case grows darker, my friend. Let us go and wait on our fellow Englishman.”

+~+~+

I did not quite know what to expect of Lord Gereint De'Ath, but whatever it had been, he was not it. He was a tallish man in his late forties, wearing an ill-fitting dressing-gown and with badly-dyed black hair. He even wore those strange tinted glasses which were meant to be beneficial for certain sight conditions. I knew the English nobility was famed for being eccentric, but this was pushing it.

I expected Sherlock to get straight down to questioning him, so of course he surprised me.

“What a wonderful walking-stick!” he exclaimed, carefully examining a silver-topped stick propped up against the table. “Though surely a little impractical?”

“How so, sir?” the nobleman asked, clearly as surprised as I was.

“Pure silver is a soft metal”, Sherlock explained, “hardly suitable for the knocks and scrape such an item must get in its daily wear. And this is the very highest quality, judging from the Birmingham hallmark. Ah well, let us get down to the tragic business of your valet.”

The man looked decidedly uncomfortable.

“Yes”, he said, with visible reluctance. “I am afraid that this may be at least partly my fault.”

“How so?” Sherlock asked. The man sat back.

“Three years ago, I had to put the family home, Kesteven Hall, up for auction....”

Sherlock exclaimed in surprise.

“I knew that I had seen the name somewhere!” he said. “The De'Aths, descendants of the Burghleys! Your house is in Rutlandshire.”

The man looked visibly astonished.

“Sir?”

Sherlock turned to me.

“Whilst I was at Cambridge, I had a small case for a family who lived in Uppingham”, he explained. “Elizabethan history always fascinated me, so I took the chance to cross into Northamptonshire and see Burghley House, home to Queen Elizabeth I's famous advisor William Cecil. They told me how he had a major falling out with his second son and threatened to disinherit him, only for James Cecil to buy a plot of land directly opposite his father's house and build what became Kesteven House there. And because it was in the county of Rutlandshire which was protected by some old Saxon law or other, his father could not touch him.”

He turned back to the nobleman.

“So you must be a Cecil, then?”

The man nodded.

“Only by female descent”, he said. “What with taxes and everything, times have been very hard of late. I sold the old place, and used the money to set myself up quite comfortably in an apartment flat London. I did not want any of the servants from the Hall – too many reminders of the past, you see – and the flats have their own cleaning staff, so I advertised just for a valet. I saw three other men before I found Nigel, who is - was wonderful at his job. He did everything around the house, including cooking and cleaning.”

“How did you come to get him?” Sherlock asked.

“Withers - Old Lord Withermore, he's passed now – recommended him to me”, the nobleman said. “I have had Nigel for just over a year, and everything was fine. Until this trip.”

“What happened?” Sherlock asked. The nobleman hesitated.

“I originally planned to visit the South of France”, he said, “and Nigel was quite all right with that. A friend telegraphed me there and said that he could put me up at a Swiss hotel that he had a share in, and I could then go on to take in this town, which quite appealed to me. But when I told Nigel that that meant we would be going home through Germany, he went quite pale. He assured me that it was nothing, but he was on edge the whole trip, and got worse once we had crossed the border into this country.”

“Do you know if he had any German connections?” Sherlock asked. 

“I believe that there is some German blood in his family, but he did not talk about his past”, the man said. “Given the current somewhat parlous state of Anglo-German relations, I could understand his reluctance to talk about them. Politics has never interested me, unlike my famous forbear.

“Tell us what happened last night”, Sherlock said.

“We got here around seven, and signed the book”, the nobleman said, frowning as he remembered. “Nigel was tense all the way from the station, so I decided that once we had got to our rooms, I would allow him some time to himself, and explore the hotel pool.”

“You were very attached to him”, Sherlock observed.

“What makes you say that?”

“Few men refer to their valets by their first names”, Sherlock observed. “Did you know that he took opium?”

The nobleman frowned.

“I strongly suspected that he had started as of late”, he admitted, “but there are worse vices, Mr. Holmes. Anyway, he insisted on accompanying me to the pool, and I had not the heart to refuse him.”

Sherlock thought for some little time before his next question.

“Did you leave him alone in your room between arriving and going to the pool room?” he asked.

“Only briefly”, the nobleman said. “He had to go to his own quarters, which adjoined mine, and leave his things there. But he was not gone long, no even two minutes.”

I noted the defensive tone in his voice.

“What happened in the pool room?” Sherlock said.

“I sat by the pool and read my book”, the nobleman said, “and Nigel read his. He was quite learned for a servant, Mr. Holmes, and was working his way through the Greek tragedies. After about an hour or so I decided to swim a few lengths. Then I rested, read a little, then swam some more. I think Nigel must have gone and told the attendant that I was not to be disturbed at some time, because the man did not come over at all.”

He hesitated before continuing.

“I do not know what the time was when it happened – I must have been there a couple of hours, maybe a little less - but I was swimming at the far end of the pool when I heard a splash. I assumed that Nigel had slipped and fallen in, so I stood up – I was at the shallow end, fortunately – and waited for him to resurface. When he did not, I got out and ran round to where he was floating face down, but he was too heavy for me to move, so I had to be content with turning him over and then hurrying to fetch the man – Paul, I think his name was – to help me. We were able to pull him out between us, but it was too late.”

Sherlock nodded, and produced a notebook from his pocket.

“Does this symbol mean anything to you?” he asked, showing the nobleman the infinity sign that we had seen on the dead man's body.

I was not expecting a reaction, so was more than a little surprised when the nobleman leapt clean out of his chair.

“Where did you find that?” he asked, his voice trembling.

“I think that there is something that you neglected to tell us”, Sherlock said gently. Lord De'Ath sighed.

“They took his body back to his room afterwards”, he said, clearly reluctantly. “The local doctor was examining him when I saw that someone had written that exact sign on a sheet of paper on his bedside table. And now I remember it, Nigel was more nervous when he came back from his room. What does it mean?”

“It may be the symbol of a criminal group that is responsible for the man's death”, Sherlock said. “I have wired to London for certain information, and once that arrives, I should be able to bring things to a conclusion. What are your plans, my lord?”

The nobleman hesitated.

“I really do not wish to stay here”, he said, “but the local police have 'strongly suggested' that I do not leave, so I suppose that stay I shall. For a few days, at least.”

“Then let us hope that we can clear things up for you”, Sherlock smiled, “and speed you on your way.”

+~+~+

We were assigned the Archduke Suite, which I later learned was the second-best that the hotel had to offer. It was far more than I could ever have afforded, but since Sherlock was doing the hotel a favour by looking into their case, I supposed that it was fair enough. It was one large room with three bedrooms off it.

“I thought that you had the case all wrapped up?” I asked curiously, as we got ready for bed. Sherlock yawned.

“I have a distinct feeling that the local police will want more in the way of evidence than 'Mr. Sherlock Holmes thinks'”, he said. “Hopefully though, if Henriksen can provide me with what I asked for, then that should be sufficient.”

“What did you ask for?” I asked, slipping under my covers.

“The criminal record of one Nigel Horton, Esquire”, Sherlock said, heading off to his room.

“You believe that there is something in his past which led to the murder?” I asked.

“Yes and no”, he said over his shoulder.

I scowled at his retreating back. 

+~+~+

The following day, Sherlock, myself, Lord De'Ath and Mr. Coburg assembled in the latter's small office. It was rather crowded, as also present was the town's English-speaking policeman, Herr Franker. He was short, stout and a little out of breath from having had to hurry from the station.

“What is all the rush for?” he demanded, clearly annoyed. “Has something new come up in the case?”

“I thought that you would like to meet the murderer of the man whose body currently lies down at your station”, Sherlock said calmly. “Of course, if you would rather not....”

The policeman looked suspiciously at him.

“Where is he?” he demanded.

“I confidently expect him to be in this room at ten o'clock”, Sherlock said.

We all looked as one at the small clock on the writing-desk, which said that there was barely a minute to go until the hour. Then we all looked at each other nervously. Never have I known sixty seconds to take so long, but with just a few seconds to go, a figure loomed outside the frosted glass door-window. I tensed up, and reached for the gun Sherlock had advised me to have ready. The door opened, and.....

It was Toby, one of the bell-boys. Everyone visibly deflated.

“Him?” the policeman said incredulously.

Sherlock smiled and shook his head, then took the proffered telegram from the boy. After quickly reading it, he tipped him (too generously, as usual) and said 'no reply'.

“Was that the information you wanted?” I asked eagerly. He nodded. 

“Yes”, he said, turning to the policeman. “I said that I would have a murderer in this room by ten, did I not?”

“Er, yes, sir....”

“Then do your duty, sir, and arrest him.”

“Arrest who?” the policeman asked bewilderedly.

Sherlock pointed to the nobleman.

“That man”, he said. “Mr. Nigel Oliver Horton, who has been masquerading as the man he killed the night before last, Lord Gereint De'Ath. And my lord, the doctor's gun is currently trained on you, so I advise you not to attempt anything foolish.”

The policeman moved fast, and had the valet cuffed before dragging him to the doorway.

“Wait a damn minute!” Mr. Horton snapped. “How the hell did you know?”

Sherlock smiled. 

“Several small things”, he said. “In particular, I recalled a comment Watson here once made about the wrong person being murdered that time in a case in Surrey, and thought to myself; how much more fitting that the rich lord be killed than the poor valet. In which case, of course, his valet, who would subsequently masquerade as him, had to have been the guilty party. It is dark at the check-in desk, and the clerk on duty likely would not even notice a servant. And you decided to have your employer killed and out of the way long before anyone else had a chance to compare the two of you.”

“I set a trap for you at our meeting yesterday. Guessing that you had only recently come into your master's employment, I lied about Kesteven Hall. If you had done any research at all, you would have realized that as the name suggests, it is a little to the east of Stamford, in the county of Lincolnshire, not west in the county of Rutlandshire.”

The man snarled at him.

“Then there was the silver stick”, Sherlock said. “Fine silver is polished by the thumbs of a manservant, and your thumbs bore the faint but unmistakable marks of cleaning your master's silver, including that stick. The real Lord De'Ath would obviously never have cleaned his own things.”

Sherlock turned to the manager.

“That was also the reason for my comment about the doctor's remarks”, he explained. “This is what actually happened. Mr. Horton kills his employer shortly after their arrival at the pool, at around eight o'clock. He makes a point of telling the attendant that the lord, who was apparently sleeping, did not wish to be disturbed. He then does what he told us, swims and reads. About two hours later, he swaps the clothes and lowers his master into the pool, then calls for help. Hence why the body was stiff; the doctor was not actually asked how long the man had been dead, but was told that the attendant had seen him alive around ten o'clock. Hence he would see the stiffer than expected limbs as inexplicable.”

“You think you're so smart”, the valet said. “It's just your word and some flimsy evidence, Mr. Holmes!”

“That and your eyes”, Sherlock said.

“What?”

Sherlock turned to me.

“Henriksen sent me full descriptions of both Lord De'Ath and Nigel Horton”, he explained. “Lord De'Ath had pale blue eyes, which ran in his family, whilst Mr. Horton's are brown.” He turned back to the valet. “Your unusual choice of glasses alerted me to that possibility, sir.”

The man snarled again, and the policeman hustled him away. The manager turned to Sherlock in gratitude.

“It goes without saying that your stay here will be free, sir”, he said. “And we would like to upgrade you to the best room we have.”

To my surprise, Sherlock shook his head.

“I think that we will stay where we are, thank you”, he said knowingly. “I do not think either the doctor or myself would relish using the Royal Suite just now.”

+~+~+

Our next case involved a clever theft – but before we undertook it, my relationship with my friend would change forever.


End file.
